


The Risk of Affection.

by snarknoir19



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:33:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21981457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarknoir19/pseuds/snarknoir19
Summary: An act of kindness triggers feelings.
Relationships: Natasha Romanov/T’Challa T’Challa/Natasha Romanov
Kudos: 30





	The Risk of Affection.

The tears caught her by surprise, stinging her eyes and she had to stop reading because the print was blurring and...fuck...it was coming..and just like that it was suddenly a tidal wave and she had no way to stem the swell of feelings. And there were memories of other feelings, deeper, dangerous feelings that threatened to swell up and swallow her whole.

...The hazy image of a doll house with toys, a braided rug, someone brushing her hair, the warm, security of being held and, and.. it was gone...a fading echo, and all that remained of her was a lonely hollow ache of emptiness... 

The wave washed up and over her and she was lost in the riptide. Breathe. Breathe. Tears welled up and spilled over before she had time to school her emotions and spilled over again and then she was just crying. There was no stopping it and so, alone, in the little car parked in the shadows of the quiet side street, Natasha wept. 

Moments passed and at last the waves, after several long minutes, began to subside, and Natasha sat gripping the steering wheel and centered herself in her breathing. 

Fuck. Fuck.fuck. 

Rogue locks of red hair swayed across her vision and she stared out through them at the world outside her windshield. 

Breathing. 

Eventually she let herself look back down at the package on the passenger seat. There sat the ridiculous little bundle with the hand scrawled note (the note which had caused her little outburst) patiently waiting for her to get over herself already. 

Fuck you, little package with your sweet note. She scrubbed the wet residue from her eyes, blew out a breath and glared at it. 

The package remained humbly there. 

She huffed and reached for the note she’d flung away and read it through again. It was of course from her teammate T’Challa, The Black Panther.  
Because, of course, he was that kind. Fuck his kindness. 

The package contained her favorite takeout order from her favorite local restaurant. There was also a bottle of water in her cup holder. 

And she thought back: T’Challa, far across the conference room with his damned Panther ears must have overheard Maria tell her to eat something before she settled into this surveillance mission. And he knew she wouldn’t (the smug assed, genius, look-at-me-I-know-everything....). And of course she hadn’t eaten but still. Arrogant.

He’d cared enough to notice and worry. About her. Fuck this lump in her throat. He’d apparently asked someone about her favorite foods. Presumptuous ass. And brought it to this location when she was meeting with her contact around the corner. The note was unnecessary and completely inappropriate. Did he think she was an idiot child? Unable to take care of herself in the field?

The short note was actually funny and referenced the day’s endless meetings and her overtly bad mood and snarky behavior. Her spilling her coffee. Her cross buttoned blouse. The glare she’d leveled at the staffer who’d flirted with T’Challa during a break. Maria had caught that one. 

It concluded with: ‘I hope this is acceptable, Miss R. You Americans require an inordinate amount of grease it would appear.’

It was signed with a simple “T.”

Sanctimonious ass. And he knew she was not American. The warm smell of perfect egg rolls filled the car. She opened the foil and settled back to watch for her target. 

They were fucking delicious. 

She supposed she could get him a card. The goodytwoshoes would probably like that.

And maybe,..maybe it wouldn’t suck too much to talk with him. 

Because, cared for. That was the feeling. That had been the damned feeling. She sighed and looked at her greasy fingers. Glanced back at the bag and....yes. Wet wipes. (Damn him). She felt it then: the tug of a smile. A soft laugh wanting out and a memory of other..feelings. 

But, no. No to the soft feeling. No to the safety of being held. No to his attention. No to his damn.sweet.smile. No to the tingle in her... 

No. 

She dried her eyes. Crumpled the bag. The target was approaching. 

Breathe.  
Maybe there never was a doll house.


End file.
